Faefever (Fever, #3)

by Karen Marie Moning

No rock star, no actor, could have competed with the golden, immortal, inhumanly erotic prince.

Gray street. Gray day. Gray rain, splashing grayly on gray pavement.

Part of the reason I was so depressed in Dublin was from simple lack of sun.

“I despise girls. I like women. They are infinitely more … interesting. Girls break. Women can surprise you.”

“Nice tan, Ms. Lane. How’s V’lane? Did you have a good time today? I take you to graveyards, but he takes you to the beach—is that what our problem is? Our little dates aren’t good enough for you? Does he romance you? Feed you all those pretty lies you’re so hungry for? I’ve been neglecting you lately. I’ll be remedying that. Sit. Over there.

I’d never had two men more obsessed with what was happening in my sex life, or rather, not happening.

Rape is much, much worse. Rape isn’t something you walk away from. You crawl.”

“Doona be ‘duh’ing me, lass,”

don’t want to have sex with Jericho Barrons.” “Lie,” Christian said.

“Kneeling to me must offend every ounce of your perky little being.”

You were something to see, he didn’t say. You were something to feel, I didn’t reply.

Chocolate should make you fat and flowers should die.

He pulled back a chair and seated me before a table drenched with linen, fine crystal, and finer food. Mac 1.0 would have felt many things: flattered, flirtatious, in her element. I felt hungry.

“The Unseelie King was once the King of the Light, the Queen’s consort, and Seelie. In the beginning, there was only Seelie.” He had me. I was riveted. This was true Fae lore straight from a Fae.

“Ours is a matriarchal line. The king held vestigial power. Only the queen knew the Song of Making.”

“He made the Unseelie!” “Yes. The dark ones are the Seelie King’s children. For thousands of years he experimented, concealing his work from the queen. Their numbers grew, as did their hungers.”

“I can smell you, Ms. Lane,” he said, even more softly. “The only blood on you is from your veins, not your womb.”

The Beast shows us the very worst in ourselves and makes us know it’s true

The most confused we ever get is when we’re trying to convince our heads of something our heart knows is a lie.

I began to cry. Barrons looked horrified. “Stop that immediately, Ms. Lane.”

“You’ve mistaken me for someone else. Do not wait on me, Ms. Lane. Do not construct your world around mine. I’m not that man.”

Liminal is a magical time, a dangerous time, fraught with possibility … and peril.

Necessary lies. I understand them now.

an Italian stallion was waiting for me,

Pestilence joined Death and Famine in God’s house. Now only War remained unaccounted for.

This was what she’d been born for. What she’d been waiting for all this time. Here. Now. Them. Sex that was worth dying for.

It was sex that was life that was blood that was God that filled every empty orifice I had, inside and out. And it was killing me. And I knew it. And I had to have more.

Was there a fourth male kissing me now? Tasting me? Why couldn’t I see him? Who was he?

I was only now. This moment. This orgasm. This hunger. This endless emptiness. This mindless need.